


토요일 새벽, 2:00 AM

by YuliaCho



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Content, Drug Use, Explicit Language, M/M
Language: 한국어
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28709289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuliaCho/pseuds/YuliaCho
Summary: 경고: 마약 사용, 언어, 성인 주제
Relationships: Alan Bradley & Sam Flynn





	토요일 새벽, 2:00 AM

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Saturday Morning, 2:00 AM](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/741201) by GoesKaboom. 



> 노트: 정상적인 글에 대한 지적은 받습니다, 이 글에 대한 어떤것도 제 소유 아님 - 왠만하면.

모든 것들을 고려해봤을때, 알란 브래들리는 샘이 자신을 불렀다는 것에 안도되어야 했다. 물론 그 젊은 친구가 과거에 연루되었던 사건을 고려해 봤을 때, 죽거나 감옥에 갇히지 않고 그렇게 오랫 동안 있었다는 사실 그 자체가 기적이었다. 하지만 토요일 새벽 2시라는 사실을 정상적으로 생각해 봤을 때, 그런 논리는 그렇게 중요한 것으로 치부되지 않았다. 그게 심지어 알란 브래들리같은 남자여도 말이다.

"누구야?" 그 나이든 사업가는 반쯤 졸면서 수화기에 대고 중얼거렸다.

"알란!" 샘의 목소리가 수화기로 들렸다, 듣기에 매우 멀리서 그것도 매우, 정말로 취한 것 같았다. "운전을 못하겠어요!"

"운전을 못한다고?" 알란이 재차 물었다. "샘, 내가 알고있기론 너 운전할 줄 알아. 4년전에 내가 너한테 가르쳐주었잖아, 그 이후로 넌 매일 운전한다고."

"아니구요, 저기 제말은, 하려던 말은요, 어떻게 운전하는 지는 알아요," 샘이 대답했다. "어쨌든 그건 좋은 생각이었어요! 제 말은, 나쁜 생각은 아니었다는 거죠- 아니, 제 말은요, 지금은 그게 나쁜 생각이라니까요!" 그는 전혀 샘 답지 않은 목소리로 킥킥거렸다. "저 술취했어요!"

"그래, 내가 듣기에도 그런 것 같네." 알란은 건조하게 말했다. 잠의 연무가 빠르게 사라지는것이 느껴졌다. "지금 어디니? 내가 데리러 갈께."

"어...32번가의 펜슬이요," 젊은 친구가 대답했다. "하하, 펜슬 처럼 보이는데요!" 알란의 눈썹이 들어올려지며 주름살을 그렸다. 32번가의 펜슬이라고? 그곳엔 펜슬이라고 부를 만한 도로가 없었다. 제정신을 차리고, 알란은 32번가에 위치한 도로 이름을 생각해내었다. 그곳엔 메이플, 퀸 앤, 프린젯, 아버 게이트, 인더스트리, 비숍, 펜스테먼... 잠깐- 펜스테먼?

"펜스테먼 말하는거니?" 알란은 물어보았다. 시끄러운 소리가 전화선을 통해 들려왔다. 알란이 뒤늦게 생각해보기에 그건 웃음소리였는데, 그건 샘에게서 들어본 어떤 웃음소리와도 달랐다.

"네, 펜스테먼이에요. 펜슬처럼 들리긴 하네요!" 샘은 대답했다. "그래서...와서 데려다 주실 수 있으세요?"

"좋아," 알란은 한숨을 쉬었다. "다른 데 가지마라, 될수있는 한 빨리 갈테니까." 물론 샘은 알란의 집에서 너무 멀어서 도시를 빠져나가야 할 정도의 거리에 있었다...교통체증이 없는 날에도 알란의 집에서 32번가의 거리까지 가기엔 30분 이상이 걸릴거고, 펜스테먼으로 빠지려면 10분에서 15분 정도가 더 걸릴터였다. 게다가 그 계산은 새로운 쇼핑센터가 32번 가에 자리잡기위해 그 끔찍한 공사가 시작되기 전의 것이었다. 다행히도 지금은 이른 아침이니 교통 체증은 없을거였다.

운좋게도, 교통체증은 일어나지 않았고, 건설 현장엔 아무도 없었다. 알란은 자신의 집을 떠난지 30분 만에 교차로의 큰 집 앞에 주차를 할 수 있었다.

차에서 내리자마자, 알란은 이게 전형적인 십대들의 파티는 아니라고 말할 수 있었다. 물론 큰 소리의 전자음악이 공기중에 쾅쾅 울렸고, 맥주를 담았을 게 분명한 어디에나 볼 수 있는 빨간 플라스틱 컵이 잔디에 버려져있었으니 평범한 파티같긴 했다. 하지만 톡 쏘는듯한, 전혀 익숙하지 않은 냄새가 공기중에서 났다. 그리고 그걸로 추정해볼 때, 알란은 이 파티의 사람들이 매우 이상하게 행동하고 있다고 말할 수 있었다.

몇몇 무리의 사람들이 라운지에 모여서는 초점없는 눈으로 가장 이상한 행동을 했다. 누군가는 마당 앞에 설치해 놓은 색 불빛을 먹으려고 시도하는 것 같았는데, 그가 아무런 맛도 나지 않는다고 불평했다. 그리고 그가 문 앞으로 일어서자, 알란은 그와 얼굴을 부딪히지 않으려고 펄쩍 뛰기까지 해야 했다. 한 젊은 여자가(그녀는 팬티 이외에는 거의 아무것도 걸치지 않았는데, 옷을 입어야 한다는 사실을 깜박한 것 같아 보였다) 고함을 지르면서 뛰쳐나왔다. **"아씨발 저기 곰들이 날 젓가락으로 먹으려고 해!"** 몇몇 다른 사람들이 문 앞에 서서 배꼽이 빠지도록 웃었다.

"에밀리, 돌아와!" 다른 여자가 소리쳤다. "그건 그냥 테디베어라고!"

"어...저 여자 괜찮은거죠?" 알란이 이제는 나무 위로 올라가려고 하는 그녀를 가리키면서(아마도 "곰들"을 피하기 위해 그런것같았다) 물었다. 남자애들 중 한 명이 웃었다.

"네, X를 먹을 때 쟤는 항상 저래요, 좀 쉬면 진정할꺼에요- 잠깐, 당신 혹시 경찰이에요?" 그는 자신의 말을 잘라먹으면서 알란을 향해 의심의 눈초리를 보내며 질문했다.

"아니, 아니에요. 누굴 찾으러 왔어요...대리기사라고나 할까," 알란은 대답했다. 그러자 무리의 사람들이 긴장을 풀었다.

"누구의?" 여자애들 중 한명이 물었다. "제가 데려다줄게요."

"샘 플린," 알란이 대답했다. "어디에 있는지 아나요?"

"물론이죠! 아저씨!"

"Sure thing, mister!" she chirruped, beckoning Alan to follow her. He obliged, allowing himself to be led through the masses of people packed inside the house. As soon as he was through the door, Alan was able to identify that smell. Weed, and a lot of it. And judging from the erratic behavior of some of the other guests, Alan was pretty sure that there was more than just weed available. The girl led him through clumps of partygoers, opened a door, beckoned for Alan to follow her, and led him down a narrow set of steps to a basement. In it, through the dim light, Alan could make out a sofa and a few chairs clustered around a television set playing Spongebob Squarepants, of all things.

"Sam!" the girl called, stepping around the front of the sofa, squaring her hands on her hips. "There's some guy here to get you." Tentatively, Alan followed, standing next to the girl. He did a double-take, seeing Sam lounging on that sofa without a care in the world, holding a beer in one hand and balancing a bag of potato chips with the other. Twenty years before, Alan had been accustomed to Flynn taking up space in the exact same manner. Sam was the spitting image of his father, right down to the heavy-lidded, dozy expression worn when stoned. The apple really didn't fall far from the tree.

"Is that him?" a sleepy-looking guy sitting next to Sam's right asked.

"Yeah, that's him," Sam stated. The girl sitting in the chair to the left let out a harsh, barking laugh that reminded Alan of a hyena.

"Hahahahaha, this grandpa? Really, Sam, the way you were talking I thought he'd be more impressive!"

"Shut up, Melissa," Sam muttered, rising unsteadily to his feet. "Can we go?" Alan raised his eyebrows.

"You were talking about me?" he asked. Sam shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess."

"We also talked about how chickpeas aren't really chicks or peas, so why do we call them?" a lump on the floor that Alan had taken to be a rug or something said.

"I don't get it!" Sam suddenly exclaimed. "They're nei... nay... not- not one of them," he finished lamely, unable to form the words. Alan had to suppress a snort. The resemblance to Flynn really was uncanny. "Then I started thinking about that time I was sick and you brought me chickpea soup. You were so hot then."

Woah. Wait a second. Back the fuck up. Did Sam just say what Alan thought he said? "Excuse me?" the businessman asked.

"When you brought me that soup you looked so hot," Sam shrugged. "For the next week when I was in the shower I jerked off to the idea, and the idea of you curing my cold with your cock." The room exploded in laughed, and Alan, horrified and humiliated, grabbed Sam by the arm and dragged him out the house, ignoring Sam's protests of "Hey, I left my Cheetos!" But as soon as he was safely ensconced in Alan's car, all thoughts of the munchies seemed to fly out of Sam's mind.

"So... now that we're alone, can we fuck? You, me, the back seat of your car..." Sam let his voice trail off suggestively, or at least, in a way he thought was seductive. Alan just stared at him incredulously.

"Sam, you're drunk, high, and I'm old enough to be your father," Alan laughed in disbelief, starting up the engine and flooring the accelerator in his haste to get as far away from that house as possible.

"Not thaaaat much older," Sam drawled. "You see it all the time in porno- the teacher and the student, the boss and employee, the rich guy and the pool boy- it's not so strange. And Hugh Hefner has those girls, and he's like, old enough to be their grandfather."

"Sam-" Alan began, but was cut off.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this!" the young man yelled. "Every night I fuck myself on my fingers pretending it's you! I like to think about what you'd do to me- take me over your lap and spank me for being a bad boy! You'd come in and punish me for getting a bad grade! You'd force me to suck your dick while you called me all kinds of filthy names. Or maybe you'd want a hard fast fuck over the kitchen table, driving yourself into me while I humped the table to get off! Maybe you'd want me to wear your ex-wife's lingerie while you fucked me, calling me your dirty girl! But I know you'd be so careful with me, that's what makes it so hot!"

"Sam, I-"

"Please, do this for me! I'll make it good for you!"

Alan gripped the steering wheel increasingly tighter as Sam's descriptions of his fantasies became increasingly dirtier and more graphic. Alan hardly what knew to do with himself. Here was Sam, who was practically his own son, describing how he wanted Alan to fuck him six ways to Sunday. It was very unnerving. Some of Sam's fantasies were quite... unexpected, and he wasn't shy about how he expressed them, moaning openly, while trying to reach over to grip Alan through his pants.

"Sam, I am trying to drive," the older man said through gritted teeth, feeling disgusting for having inspired these ideas in Sam, no matter how unconsciously he had done it. Sam just grinned at him, however.

"Then pull over!"

"Sam, you're inebriated, and for the last time, no," Alan reiterated for what seemed like the hundredth time. Of course, Sam didn't hear, didn't understand, or just plain didn't care. Alan was going with the last one- Flynn had always had the same single-mindedness when he got high, although it had (thankfully) always been directed towards things like his programming (never mind that most of the time, the code he produced while stoned was useless).

After what seemed like decades, Alan finally pulled into his driveway, something that Sam didn't miss. "Oh! I knew you wanted it too! You brought me back to your place!"

"To sleep," Alan emphasized. Sam just waggled his eyebrows. Alan ignored him, unlocking the front door, and making Sam sit on the sofa in the living room. "You. Wait there," he ordered, emphatically putting his hand down on the sofa. Sam heaved a long-suffering sigh, mirroring Alan's own mental state.

Quickly, he went into the kitchen, looking around for a plastic cup he could put some water in. Once he'd secured that, he started rummaging around in the cupboards, trying to find something for Sam to eat. He personally had never partaken- he was too straitlaced for that, even as a young man- but he remembered Kevin Hoovering all of the food he could find, like a possessed vacuum cleaner, every time he got high. Considering how similar Sam's behavior was to his father's, he wouldn't have been surprised if Sam had the same habit. However, as a middle-aged, divorced businessman, Alan very rarely ate at home, usually either going out with coworkers or ordering takeout. Finally, he found a package of pretzels. He took the salty snacks and water into the living room, only to see that Sam was fast asleep on the sofa.

Sighing softly, Alan went to the closet and dug out the old green afghan Lora had knitted early in their marriage, and left behind after the divorce. He covered the younger man with it, before turning to go upstairs to catch up on his lost sleep.

Sam awoke with a splitting headache, a taste of old socks in his mouth, and fuzzy memories of the previous night. He remembered going to Brian Keberline's party the night before, and most of his high school class, as well as a good chunk of his current classmates at CalTech , had been there. Samantha Delerman had made use of her employee discount at the liquor store to supply the alcohol, and Emily Strong had gotten some Ecstasy tablets from somewhere that she kept unsuccessfully trying to push off to other people. Sam wouldn't have been surprised if she'd ended up taking them herself. He remembered going downstairs to the basement with some friends from high school and college. He remembered watching a bit of television before both Dylan Wiand and Melissa Long had brought out their weed.

They had all shared it, and that's where his memory got fuzzy, a combination of weed and alcohol impairing his recollections. He remembered one of the guys- was it Johnathan Buccheri, maybe- talking about how attracted he was to the calculus professor, a cranky older woman at LEAST in her mid-sixties. Everyone had laughed, and Sam remembered feeling defensive. He was attracted to older people too! Specifically, Alan Bradley, his surrogate father. Oh, the fantasies he had starring that man... Sam couldn't remember if he'd shared any of them or not, but he did remember a lot of laughter and good-natured joking that he couldn't help but think had been directed at him.

Then, he vaguely remembered Louise Something-or-other from his 12th grade English class (and Emily Strong's best friend) coming down to tell him he had visitors or something. And after that? It was nothing but a blur of fuzzy colors, sounds, and sensations.

It was then, with a start, that Sam realized where he was. Oh shit, this wasn't Brian Keberline's basement. This was Alan Bradley's living room. Those were Alan Bradley's pretzels and Alan Bradley's glass of water on Alan Bradley's coffee table. That was Alan Bradley's ex-wife's afghan covering his lower half.

Oh god, This wasn't looking too good for him, Sam thought, being in Alan's house after a night of debauchery, where he may or may not have been a topic of raunchy conversation. How did he end up in Alan's house, anyway? Oh god, he hadn't been arrested and Alan posted his bail, did he?

This was just getting worse and worse. Sam just wanted to get the hell out of this house and get his Ducati. Then he'd go home and never, ever leave it again.But part of him knew that wouldn't be fair to Alan. He'd shown his ass in a big way and Sam knew that Alan was the one who'd been stuck dealing with it. At the very least, he'd saved Sam from becoming street pizza when he, inevitably, given his state the previous night, crashed the Ducati.

Steeling his nerves, Sam walked into the kitchen, almost hoping that he wouldn't find Alan. Of course, the older businessman was sitting at the table, sipping a mug of coffee and reading the newspaper, the only difference between this Saturday morning and any other work day was the fact that Alan was clad in pajamas, rather than a business suit. Nervously, Sam cleared his throat, and Alan looked up, shooting Sam a look. Not just a look, but one of his patented "what the hell were you thinking?" looks.

"Uh... hi," Sam tried. Alan raised an eyebrow. "Th-thanks for coming to get me."

"Of course," Alan said dryly. "When you called me, you were so out of it that I was surprised you managed to remember my phone number." Sam winced- not only because of how far gone he must have been, but the fact that he had been the one to call Alan. He had thought that if he hadn't been called by some authority, one of his friends had been the one to dial the older man.

"I called you?" was all he could think to say. Sam didn't think that the older man's eyebrows would go any higher at all, but he was wrong.

"You really don't remember anything, do you?"

"Not much after I got high," Sam admitted. Alan sighed.

"So you don't remember calling me a 'silver fox' and telling me you wanted me to fuck you so hard that you couldn't sit down for a week? Then you said something about me forcing you to suck my dick, and then there was something about woman's lingerie and me calling you a 'dirty girl?'" Sam winced again, and would have said something, but Alan wasn't done. "Then there was that whole thing about me fucking you so hard over the table that you'd come without having to touch yourself." Those were all fantasies that he'd had, but Sam had never expected Alan to ever find out about them, much less have them parroted back in all their filthy, explicit glory, by the very subject of said fantasies.

"Alan, I can explain-"

"How do you intend to explain this?" Alan replied calmly, not giving away his emotions. "That you were drunk and stoned and that you didn't know what you were saying? I'm old, Sam, but I'm not an idiot. Your father sometimes got just as wasted, and he was never more honest with me than he was then." Sam looked so shocked, horrified, betrayed, and jealous that Alan felt the need to explain more, although secretly he felt that he shouldn't have to. "It wasn't what you're thinking. He would always tell me exactly what he thought of our coworkers, my ideas, and the company's plans."

It was foolish, he knew, but Sam felt better to know that his father and Alan hadn't had that kind of relationship. Maybe it meant he had a chance? It must have been quite obvious what he was thinking, because Alan then continued: "No, your father and I never... well, anyway. And no, I do not wish to have that kind of relationship with you, either. My god, Sam! You're like my son!"

"But I'm not your son!" Sam exclaimed, knowing where this was headed.

"You might as well be," Alan replied coolly. "I'm sorry, Sam, but I just can't see you in that way." Alan shuddered. Even just talking about hypotheticals felt... incestuous, somehow.

Sam nodded, a lump forming in his throat. He wasn't sure how he'd expected this conversation to go, but a part of him had held out hope that Alan would understand and want him too. At the very least, he'd expected to be lectured about his drug usage and alcohol consumption. That was the parental-figure lecture that would have made more sense. Alan exhaled slowly, recognizing the conflicting emotions currently making themselves known on Sam's face.

"I understand, Sam, I really do. I was your age once too, and there were people I cared for very much. People that I cared for that... didn't feel the same. I know how it feels. But you're my best friend's son!"

"My father is dead," Sam said dully. "And if he's not, then he's off somewhere doing whatever. Why should that matter now?"

Alan tried to hide how much those words hurt him. He believed Flynn was still alive, somewhere, and that he hadn't abandoned his family, and his work. But hearing the finality in Sam's voice drove home the point that the rest of the world thought the same thing. "You've been my son since you were seven years old!" he continued. "I always saw you as my son, and I never would have thought... never would have expected-"

"I get it," Sam said quickly. "This must have been... a shock." Alan snorted, the barest shades of a grin teasing the corners of his mouth upwards.

"That's an understatement. But you know I would have picked you up from that party, even if I'd know about... this at the time," he said. Sam looked confused.

"What are you talking about?"

"The drugs, Sam. And the alcohol," Alan replied, tone turning deadly serious. "Sam, if you had tried to go home on your own, you would have gotten seriously hurt. When I got there, you could barely tell up from down! And even if you'd somehow managed to avoid hurting yourself, you could have gotten arrested! You're not 21 for another two months, Sam." Sam looked like he was about to offer a rebuttal, but Alan didn't let him. "And I don't care if you'd be able to get away with it for the alcohol, being so close in age. Marijuana is illegal for everyone, and no, you do not have a medical reason to use it, and I doubt the police would believe it if you tried that excuse." Sam didn't have a rebuttal to that.

"I'm sorry," he said, after a lengthy pause. "I'm sorry, for everything." Alan sighed, clapping a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"So am I," he stated.

"Let's just forget this ever happened," Sam said quickly. "I won't smoke weed, and I'll wait to drink again. And we'll never mention this again, alright?"

Even though he said it, however, both he and Alan knew that neither one of them would forget what had been said that past night. Well, at least Sam wouldn't forget it again. It would be one of those things, the family truths that hung around like a miasma of awkwardness, tainting every interaction from here on out. Both Alan and Sam had no delusions about that.

But they could at least try to take one step forward at a time.

/END


End file.
